


harmony

by ricepaperboi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Descriptions of Pain, M/M, bucky keeps his arm, cellist sam, violist bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 15:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricepaperboi/pseuds/ricepaperboi
Summary: Bucky shakes his head lethargically. “I’m fine,” he says again. He forces himself to look up at Sam again, but the pain is enough to make his eyes well. “Sorry, Sam, I think I’m going to have to skip rehearsal today.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	harmony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eliizabethyork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliizabethyork/gifts).

The rehearsal room is small, barely large enough to fit a quartet and it was exactly what Bucky needed. The sky is only just beginning to lighten. The sun barely breaks the horizon. Halls are silent and rooms are empty. Bucky welcomes the reprieve.

A folding table is pushed up against the wall. He sets his viola case on it and takes a slow and steady breath as he rolls the kinks from shoulders and neck. He reaches his hands up high, stretches palms heavenward and immediately regrets it. The muscle of his left shoulder tightens and sends a searing pain shooting down his arm. 

Like a wildfire it jumps nerve endings and feeling as if it sears the skin above his shoulder blade.

Teeth clench as he is forced to sit through a spasm of pain so bad his hand begins to tremble slightly. Bucky unclasps his case with a slow and steady breath. The air is filled with the smell of rosin and wood cleaner. It helps ease him. He plucks gently at the strings, their reverberations leaving thin clouds of rosin in the air. Bucky inhales slowly and until his lungs ache. He goes through a B minor scale in his head, exhaling slowly as he does. The pain throbs through his shoulder and down through the bone.

Fingertips trace the edge of the viola, up the bridge, along the neck, the pegs. He tries to think about the grain of wood beneath his fingers and not the cacophony of grinding metal or the smell of smoke.

A low note echoes down the hall--a cello. First Bucky ignores it. He looks to his own instrument, but his arm is screaming in protest, daring him to even pick up the viola. Lips press tight. Then he hears the cello begin to play. It is an original piece, or at least not one that Bucky is familiar with. It is a melancholy song, echoing hollow notes that make Bucky’s chest ache and short playful staccatos that he cannot help but smile at. 

Bucky leans against the door frame of his little rehearsal room. He looks left then right, finding no one else, makes his way down the hall. He holds his hand in pants pocket and tries to relax his arm. The pain is nagging but barely given focus apart from the music. Bucky knows all the other cellists, their playing styles and preferred warm up pieces. This is none of them. The curiosity is overwhelming.

The door to the stage is cracked open. Audience lights are on, dimmed and just enough to give the stage the barest bit of illumination. Center stage, a man Bucky is unfamiliar with continues playing his melancholy piece. His eyes are closed, fingers dancing languidly up and down the strings. It is magic the way the man dances his bow along the strings. The harmonic reverberations echo through the auditorium, it seems to Bucky to echo throughout his body. Bucky watches him play and is even more overwhelmed with curiosity so much so that he almost forgets the sharp pain shooting down his arm. 

“His name is Sam.” 

Bucky is pulled back into the reality and pain returns sevenfold. Teeth clench, but he turns his head gives Natasha a slight smile. “You know everyone that walks on that stage?” 

“Sam and I played together in Germany for a governor’s dinner. Fury wanted another cellist for this season since Bruce broke his hand.” Natasha peeks around Bucky to look into the auditorium. “He’s great, isn’t he? I’ll introduce you.” 

“No, I--”

Before Bucky can finish his sentence, Natasha is pushing open the door which groan and squeal in protest. Bucky follows her in. Sam opens his eyes and flashes them a smile as they walk through the rows toward the stage. The music changes as they get closer, changes from melancholy to something more playful. By the time they come near, Sam is playing a gay waltz. 

“Hey, stranger. You come all the way here for an encore?”

Sam grins as he stands, holding bow and cello in one hand to give Natasha a quick embrace. “For a violinist like you? I’d consider it.”

Natasha introduces Bucky. “He’s your violist, played with Steve in Germany, too.”

Sam holds out his hand for a firm handshake. “So, you’re my other half.” 

Bucky shakes his hand and he cannot be struck by the way those brown eyes catch the auditorium lights. Softened pools of dark brown. Smile like a goddamn angel. “Yeah, I--what?” 

Sam laughs softly. “Eyeglasses. The Director said you requested it months ago.” 

“I...I did? I did.”

“Fury just gave me the sheet music. I don’t have to long but if you have a minute I’d like to go over it with you.”

* * *

They practice for weeks. From time to time, they will catch each other’s eye. Sam will give him a smirk, fingers dancing along the neck of his cello. And Bucky will feel his stomach quiver with a kaleidoscope of butterflies and he will try not to falter on suspiciously timed glissandos. They do not have to linger on their duet; their sound comes together flawlessly. But they practice it anyway along with Fury’s tentative playbill. They play anything and everything. They sit on stage. They talk about everything and nothing. 

Sam is a travelling cellist, Bucky learns. He met Natasha on a USO tour, helps vets with music therapy, and volunteers for church youth music programs. He is kind and gentle, eloquent and fiercely outspoken, and unafraid of pushback. He is passionate and easy to laughter. And once having an impromptu setup in Bucky’s living room, Bucky had to fight a hard on watching the cellist play through Kodaly’s Sonata.

* * *

The day Bucky is set to rehearse with Sam--two days before their play through with Fury--Bucky’s arm is engulfed in searing pain, palm tingling and fingers gone numb. He lays in bed only able to breath slowly as tears spring intermittently to his eyes and roll down the sides of his face. He bites hard at his lower lip. He needs to move; his phone has rung so many times, he has long since watched it vibrate off the dresser.But Bucky is certain that that moment he moves then every muscle in his arm will tear itself apart. So he does not move. The minutes tick by and the pain does not subside but interchanges from throbbing ache to sharp and shooting pains. 

A sharp knock sounds at the door. 

Bucky turns his head to look in the direction of the sound. The small movement creates a pain so sharp it feels as if someone had split him open from shoulder to elbow. He bites hard at the inside of his cheek and chokes back a sob. He ignores the persistent knocking, desperately hoping whoever it is would give up already.

“Buck, you home? It’s Sam.” 

Sam has not even finished talking and Bucky is swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stands roughly to shuffle his way to the door.

“Hey man, I tried call--are you ok?” Sam’s face is etched with concern as he watches Bucky lean heavily against the doorframe. 

“I’m fine.” Bucky cradles his left arm carefully in his right. Face is pale and he is shaking. He looks at Sam wearily. “What are you doing here?” 

The cellist looks back with confusion. “We were suppose to rehearse today. You didn’t seem like the type to skip so I thought I’d check in. You bubonic?” 

Bucky cracks a smile despite the fact gravity makes him want to saw his arm off. “I’m not sick. I’m...I need to sit down.” 

It feels as if someone had gone beneath the skin and shredded the muscle with a cheese grater. Bucky is near overwhelmed and has to close his eyes to rest forehead to the cool wood of the door frame.

“You need some help?” 

Bucky shakes his head lethargically. “I’m fine,” he says again. He forces himself to look up at Sam again, but the pain is enough to make his eyes well. “Sorry, Sam, I think I’m going to have to skip rehearsal today.” 

Sam exhales with a small, sad smile. “Mind if I come in?”

* * *

Barely an hour later and Bucky is laid out on his couch with bags of ice beneath his shoulder and heating packs up and down his arm. The place is beginning to smell of takeout and numbing cream. Bucky gives a high pitched whistle as the TV begins to play opening credits. 

Sam comes from around the couch to settle into the floor. Bucky nudges him and in doing so has to bite his tongue to keep from crying aloud at the hundreds of nails being driven into his arm. He moves his feet and gestures to the end of the couch. “Sit here,” he says as nicely as he can through clenched teeth. 

Sam folds his legs to get more comfortable and smiles. “Would a massage help at least?”

“I don’t...yes. Yes. Please,” he concedes as another spasm rips through him. 

Bucky covers his eyes and whimpers as Sam gently moves his arm. Sam sits the floor as Bucky lays on the couch, arm slung across Sam’s chest. Fingers knead muscle firmly but gently. “Gone with the Wind? I figured you more as a Humphrey Bogart kinda guy,” Sam says as if it was just another chat after rehearsal. 

Good arm still draped over his eyes, Bucky gives a quiet hum. “It was the only thing on. Arguably one of the best soundtracks.” 

“But in your heart, you know it’s really Jurassic Park,” Sam says lightly. 

The movie plays like background noise. Sam talks when Bucky cannot, makes off the cuff comments that Bucky cannot help but laugh to. And when he talks, Bucky is reminded of when they play, how Sam’s cadence echoes from cello to words. With his arm draped over Sam’s chest, it is as if the entire world seems to harmonize.  
Everything, even his pain makes sense. 

A noise escapes Bucky, a mix of frustration and relief at the feel of Sam’s fingers along his bare arm. He shifts his head to look at the other with eyes half-mast. “You're oddly good at this. You often go around massaging injured musicians?"

“I used to do this for a bassist I knew.” Sam say quietly. He stares ahead at the television. “He had a shoulder injury that always made him lag shifting positions. Doing this helped.” 

“He got better?”

“No.” Colors changing across his face. Scarlett throws a tirade while Rhett laughs. “No, uh, he died.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Sam looks at Bucky. “Can I ask you what happened?” 

“Train accident.” Bucky clenches his teeth once again as spark reignite up and down his arm. “Bucharest. I got...pinned. They saved...they saved my a--Christ!” He jumps when a sudden jolt runs through him. 

Sam watches with concern as Bucky bites down on a pillow. “They didn’t give you meds for this sort of thing?” 

“Muscle relaxer. You ever try to play through those? It’s like trying to play underwater.” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “Really, Sam, you don’t have to do this. It happens. It could last all day. I’m sure you have somewhere else to be.”

“I don’t. And to be honest, this is not entirely unselfish.” Sam smiles. “I can’t wait to get you on stage again.”

“Don’t boost my ego just because I’m looking pitiful.” 

“There are probably better violists in this world. But I haven’t seen one yet.” 

“That was really nice, you know. You should put that on a card.” Carriages rattle by and people shout in the background. Scarlett weeps shamelessly. “I couldn’t imagine not playing. It’s only when I play I feel like people are really listening.”

“How do you know they’ll understand what you’re trying to say?” 

“I don’t. Maybe I just want to be mysterious. Like Greta Garbo”

Sam leans his head back to rest against Bucky’s side. “I listen.” 

Rhett laughs at one of Scarlett’s tirades, a classic roguish laugh. Brown eyes are twinkling in the light. And Bucky is suddenly acutely aware that his arm is still draped across Sam’s chest, can feel Sam’s heartbeat thumping near his brachial artery. 

“What do you think of when we play?” Bucky asks quietly. 

Sam is holding his stare. Hands have stilled on Bucky’s arm. “Nothing,” he answers. “When we play, it takes all I can do not to stop and listen.” He reaches up, fingertips brushing against Bucky’s shoulder. “You want hot or cold?” 

Bucky’s gaze had fallen to the curve of Sam’s neck and he shakes himself back to awareness. “What?” 

“You’re ice pack’s gone warm. You want more ice or a hot pack?”

“No--I...I’m fine. You touching--helping. You helping me really helped--helps...me.” Warmth creeps ups Bucky’s neck and face as he trips over his words.

Sam gives a quiet, easy laugh that makes Bucky’s chest ache. “I’m glad I’m helping.” 

They sit that way until the end of the movie. Conversation is sparse but the silence is easy. And when the movie ends, Sam carefully removes himself from beneath Bucky’s arm. He raises his hands high above his head in a deep stretch. 

“Thank you for that.” Bucky rises gingerly with his arm cradled to his chest. There is hardly more than a foot of space between them. “You should be kissed often and by someone who knows how.” He means it as a joke, a throwaway quote of Rhett Butler’s. But his eyes have wandered to Sam’s lips and he’s wondering what they would feel like pressed up against his. He remembers Sam likes his coffee black first thing in the morning.

Sam drags his tongue across his lower lip. “Bucky, we…”

Maybe the way the muscles are starting to tense up again. Maybe it’s the way Sam is staring at his mouth. Maybe it’s because they have just spent the last hour in a semi-embrace. Maybe these are excuses. Bucky has been thinking about kissing Sam since the second Natasha introduced them.

They’re soft, Sam’s lips. And when he kisses back it is as if everything else gets turned down and transmuted into a low hum. Sam’s reaches up to gently intertwine his fingers with the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck. Fingers dance along Bucky’s spine like the neck of a cello. Wrist twitches. And then they are gone. Lips. Hands. There is an odd few inches of empty space Sam had just been occupying. 

“I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?” Sam’s hands are hovering, waiting for Bucky to step in to them.

Bucky stares at his own. His left gently cradled in his right. “What? No, see? The train, uh, accident when I was pinned under the cars, it left some nerve damage. The feeling’s come back to my fingers is all. It'll stop after a minute. You really helped me out. Thank you, Sam.”

“I hope you didn’t just kiss me to thank me.” 

Bucky leans closer until their lips are a paper thin distance apart. “It isn’t entirely unselfish.” 

Sam smirks before he leans close to kiss him again.


End file.
